


Advantages of Playing Away

by saltstreets



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dressing Room Sex, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Old Men Getting Nostalgic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 23:16:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12330798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: “What, feeling a little bit intimidated, are you?”“No,” said Jamie, with a huff, “Old Trafford's just not the sexiest location I can think of. In fact, very much down at the bottom of the ‘sexy locations’ list.”





	Advantages of Playing Away

**Author's Note:**

> Well well well would you look at this, another fic that isn't Last Minute Sub! No need for alarm, I'm definitely writing other nonsense because I finished my assignment last week and have been using my time productively, and not because I'm procrastinating. Nooo not at all. Where would you get that idea.
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The whole thing had been a terrible lot of fun, Jamie thought as he clapped the stands of Old Trafford, not without an appreciation of the (mostly) good-natured boos some of the gathered faithful were throwing at him. Not that he hadn’t expected it to be fun: good testimonials always were, even with the accompanying bittersweet pang of longing for his playing days. But Jamie had been laughing his head off for the better part of the ninety minutes and the elation hadn’t yet faded. Not exactly what he would have expected, playing a load of Mancs in front of a crowd which had routinely called for his blood back in the day,

He supposed he was a lot friendlier with quite a few of said Mancs now than he had been, thanks to the punditry gig and being subsequently dragged around by Gary to a load of his dinner-things all over Britain.

And speaking of Gary, where was the pudgy bastard? They had had their little chat with the ITV lot and then hung about with Phil and a little gaggle of the others, but Gary had drifted off and Jamie couldn’t see him anymore.

Not that it was important. Jamie wasn’t really that interested in sticking around for ages and ages. Like he’d said in their interview, he was looking to avoid most of the United-themed revelries that the evening no doubt had in store.

That interview had been a funny thing. Standing pitch-side with Gary chatting to the ITV reporter had brought with it a strange double-vision that Jamie couldn’t quite shake. He was used to that sort of thing by now, at Gary’s side chattering on about some match or another, but usually they were in suits holding microphones of their own. In kits with sweat and grass clinging to them, the burn of the past ninety minutes growing comfortable in Jamie’s calves, it had felt as though his two lives had been colliding somehow. He’d never stood next to Gary, wearing a different kit to his, and felt the same easy glow of their back-and-forth warm between them.

The United crest was bright and high over Gary’s heart and, for once, Jamie had thought that it suited him.

He spotted Gary then, talking animatedly to Giggs near the tunnel, and Jamie went over. He wasn’t going to leave without saying goodbye. He had _manners._

Ryan saw him first over Gary’s shoulder and grinned, widely and far too self-satisfied. “Carra.”

“You gonna apologise for showing me up in front of thousands back there?” Jamie demanded, slinging an arm around Gary’s shoulder and leaning on him. Gary jumped slightly but didn’t shake him off, which Jamie counted as a victory. “An embarrassment.”

“The embarrassing bit you did all on your own, I was just happy to assist. You coming out with us tonight?”

“What, and have to listen to you Mancs get drunk and reminisce all evening? I’ll pass on that, thanks.”

“C’mon Carragher, you have to be our token Scouser. And besides,” Ryan added, a cheeky sort of glint in his eye, “Gaz here will be _awful_ disappointed if you don’t come. What?” he blinked innocently at Gary’s answering scowl.

Jamie just laughed and pulled his arm a little bit closer around Gary’s shoulders. “ _Gaz_ will survive. Get Phil to do his accent if you’re so keen on diversity. No, I’m going to shower off and go home for a nice quiet evening. You lads have fun, yeah?”

There were, after all, some party lines that just didn’t get crossed. Jamie knew that. They all knew that. He was genuinely friends with some of Gary’s United mates, but most of them only tolerated him because Gary did, and vice-versa.

“Shower sounds like a good idea,” Ryan said with a glance at Gary. “Gonna try to get in before Scholesy uses up all the hot water.”

“Gary!” Phil came jogging up, “Do you know where we’re going after? I have to shower off and I swear, if you leave without me and I spend the evening wandering about trying to find you-”

“This sounds like a conversation you can have without me,” said Jamie, holding in a snicker and releasing Gary in the direction of his brother. Gary gave him a despairing sort of look but Jamie just kept grinning and stepping away until Gary was safely within Phil’s clutches.

He located Carrick across the pitch, standing with a small group of people and laughing, and made his way over to pay his compliments before finally turning down to the dressing rooms and the cool shower that was beginning to sound incredibly inviting. Bugger it all, but he was definitely getting old.

He was heading down the tunnel when he heard Gary calling after him. “Hey, Jamie!”

Jamie slowed, Gary jogging up behind him. “Got away from Phil, did you?”

“I had to figure out how to send locations through WhatsApp but yes.” He fell into step beside Jamie easily. “I’ll be happy to get under the water, Christ.”

“You need to be keeping in better shape,” Jamie ribbed, although he had been thinking the exact same thing not a minute earlier, “if a half hour of jogging about is putting you out of sorts.”

“Ha! I still play better than you, for all your mad training. You’d have had your own head off on MNF, if you’d been a Liverpool player putting in that tackle,” Gary scolded. “Could’ve broken my leg there.”

“I never,” said Jamie, grinning widely. “I had a hold of you alright, you didn’t go down _too_ hard. Made sure of that.”

“’ _Course_ you did,” Gary said sarcastically, but there was a light joking quality to his tone that Jamie could recognise easily as Gary just firing away at him without any real heat. His fringe was slick with sweat against his forehead, and the United kit draped over his shoulders in a familiar way. It was like they’d never left, Jamie thought idly, or at least it almost could be. Asides from the considerable streaks of grey in his hair and the way his knees had started protesting twenty minutes in.

Oh, and the fact that he wasn’t looking for a way he could quietly stomp on Gary without getting some sort of FA sanction for it. That was quite a departure from the way things had been.

The more he thought about it, the more he genuinely _was_ a bit put out that Gary would be going out with the United contingent. Obviously it was always going to happen; it was a Manchester testimonial after all. But that didn’t mean that Jamie couldn’t feel a bit miffed regardless. He’d have liked to go out with Gary. Get a bit drunk and maybe tell mean jokes about each other...and who knows, maybe go home afterwards. Jamie wasn’t- he wasn’t the kind of person who ever expected anything. Especially not with Gary. That would probably be pointless. But he could _think._

They split up to go wash off and Jamie thought all while he showered in the away dressing room and changed into jeans and a button-down, and he thought while he laced up his shoes, sat on the bench in front of the lockers feeling a strange, dizzying sense of deja vu as the gaggle of other players chattered around him, slowly trickling out with shouted farewells. It was going to be weird getting in a taxi back to his hotel after this, instead of getting on a team bus back to Liverpool. Things really had changed. He’d be heading back to London tomorrow to run about at Sky’s behest, and when he did get back to Liverpool, whenever that might be, he could sleep in, lounge about his modern flat in shorts and eat Italian dinners that were too heavy to even think about running afterwards.

And he could go out with Gary Neville. That was the point he kept returning to. There was no real reason to elevate this above all else that had changed since he’d stopped running about a pitch on the regular, but it seemed pertinent. He could go out with Gary Neville.

Well, not tonight he couldn’t. But he didn’t _need_ to: Jamie had other friends about, or he could ring up Stevie and give him stick for having gotten injured at the mere thought of playing at Old Trafford again.

As if summoned by Jamie’s thoughts, at that moment the door to the dressing room pushed open and Gary slipped in, a black sports bag over his shoulder.

Jamie blinked, surprised to see him. He stood up from the bench. “Thought you’d have left already with your Manc lads,” he said. “You forget something?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“This isn’t your dressing room, by the way. Have you really been retired that long?”

“What I forgot wasn’t in my dressing room, idiot.” Gary glanced around the empty space.

Jamie was nonplussed. “Well, what then?”

Gary walked towards him, carefully, and there was a glint in his eye that made Jamie take an instinctive step backwards. “Don’t tell me you want to have a scrap. I just showered. If you feel you have to give me a kicking can we not wait?”

“Everyone else gone home?”

“Yes. So I’m entirely without backup. Have mercy.” Jamie took another step back and hit the wall. The look on Gary’s face, initially wary, had gone predatory. The wall did not seem incidental.

Gary dropped the bag he’d been carrying and reached instead for Jamie, pushing him flat up against the cool whitewashed cement, one hand on his chest and the other at his waist.

Jamie swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Gary?”

Gary had his fingers on the buckle of Jamie’s belt. He looked at him expectantly. “Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Do you really need me to spell it out for you? I know, James, that most of your sexual encounters have probably been anonymous fumbles under bridges-”

“Don’t get smart, you know what I meant. I just- _here?_ Really?”

“Where else.” Gary’s brow wrinkled. “Is it- do you not want-”

“No, no, I do,” said Jamie hurriedly, alarmed by the note of uncertainty that had entered Gary’s voice. “I, uh, really do. Um. Yeah.”

It was still a new thing. They’d messed about before, a few times. Four times. Well, five. Six if he counted drunkenly kissing Gary their first weekend out after Gary’s return to England, which he didn’t really, because although it had been a heated three seconds in which every brain cell in Jamie’s possession had started screaming at every other brain cell alternatively YES and NO, Gary had just laughed it off and bought him another beer. Should he count that? Maybe. Yes. Alright, six times.

And he liked Gary. Hell, he liked Gary a _lot._ A lot more than he probably should, to be honest, but Gary seemed to like him back well enough, and it had been working out so far, but Jamie was usually the one leading the way. Not that Gary had never instigated anything, but the difference between Gary dragging him off for an exploratory snog in the back stairwell while the lights were being turned off after everyone else had gone home, and Gary undoing his belt, two high spots of colour on his cheeks, in the away dressing room _at Old Trafford_ , was as wide a chasm as any Jamie had ever encountered.

Gary wasn’t usually the forward one, out of the two of them. Gary blushed when Jamie put his arm around him in the studio, and delicately put space between them when Jamie wanted to take a photo. Jamie had spent months having fun exploring where and what Gary’s boundaries were, and then applying tactical pressure to said boundaries.

And now here was Gary Neville, personal space champion, skittish giggler, and all-around expert in having the emotional range of a doorframe when it came to non-football topics, unbuttoning Jamie’s jeans and looking at him with a decidedly heated expression.

“I’m glad you were here today,” said Gary. “Putting in shit tackles and making a tit of yourself. I could hear you screeching from the bench, you know.”

“I figured if I was going to spend the Sunday in the midst of enemy territory I might as well enjoy myself,” said Jamie weakly, his heart skipping in traitorous elation.

“Glad you did,” Gary continued ruthlessly. “Would have liked to get in a proper scuffle though. S’ppose I can settle for this.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And oh, I also thought, if you won’t agree to come out with us tonight, you might agree to come home with me. Afterward.”

Jamie’s circulatory system didn’t seem to be working probably. There was a distinct lack of blood getting to his brain and far too much of the stuff heading south. “I’d, uh, like that. I would.”

“Good,” said Gary, and leaned forward and kissed him.

Gary was a good kisser. Jamie had been initially surprised by that and then not at all surprised, because Gary kissed like he was trying to win, and it just so happened that Jamie liked that. Gary pressed into kisses and was _handsy,_ once encouraged. And Jamie was the encouraging sort. He grabbed at Gary’s hand now, dragging it down from his belt to where his cock was already hard in his jeans.

“Don’t be so impatient,” Gary scoffed, but obligingly gave Jamie a squeeze. “What are you, fifteen?”

“Yes,” said Jamie, and caught Gary back into the kiss.

It was a deeply satisfactory kiss. Gary was in a shoving mood which always sped Jamie’s pulse up a bit for reasons he didn’t want to examine too closely. There was probably something worryingly psychological to be said about a career of kicking other men about a pitch and the effect on the human brain, and Jamie didn’t want to know about it. He just knew that he liked it when Gary pushed him around, and when he did the same to Gary.

Gary had brought his hands back to Jamie’s waist and had managed to fumble open his jeans. Jamie was unmistakeably hard, the outline of his erection insistent through the grey cotton of his briefs.

 “Are we seriously about to have a wank at Old Trafford?” he asked again, an intense battle of emotions making him feel both horrified and aroused at once. “Can we not- wait until we leave?”

“What, feeling a little bit intimidated, are you?”

“ _No,”_ said Jamie, with a huff, “just not the sexiest location I can think of. In fact, very much down at the bottom of the ‘sexy locations’ list.”

“Yeah, well. You’re not looking at the location. You’re looking at _me._ ”

Jamie was. There was a flush high on Gary’s cheeks and his mouth was bitten red. He looked _very_ appealing, Old Trafford or not.

Then Gary dropped to his knees, and Jamie’s mind went more or less pleasantly blank. Gary dragged Jamie’s jeans down around his thighs, and then, almost carefully, rolled down the waistband of his briefs.

_“Gary.”_

“Shut up, will you?”

“I didn’t even say anything- ah, oh jesus- okay, shutting up now.”

Jamie had sucked Gary off once before, the high water mark of his progress into Gary’s personal space, last December at a Christmas party. He wasn’t particularly proud of that, but it wasn’t as though he’d expected to see Gary sneak upstairs to escape the drunken carol singing, and Gary hadn’t needed to laugh at the expression on his face and drag him into an empty bedroom. He had liked it, trying to stay balanced with his knees sinking into the squashy mattress and Gary’s giggles turning into moans as Jamie’d inexpertly but nonetheless enthusiastically experimented with different applications of mouth on dick. It had been stupid and risky and fun, which more or less summed up the turn their friendship had taken over the past few years, but it hadn’t exactly been some big revelation. As far as the two of them were concerned, what they had going was closer to a long, increasingly high-stakes game of one-upmanship than anything else. They were friends and even that had been the product of a long laborious process.

When Gary had appeared through the door and made his intentions clear Jamie had expected a quick snog. Maybe a mutual handjob if Gary was feeling the same run-off of adrenaline from the match that was running hot through Jamie’s veins, but not this.

It was sloppy and a bit clumsy, but Gary’s mouth was hot and wet around his cock and Jamie had to bite down on the side of his hand to keep himself from making a noise that would be far too loud in the empty dressing room. Jamie wasn’t small, his cock thick all the way around, and the stretch of Gary’s lips, eyes half closed as he took Jamie into his mouth was gorgeous.

His shirt was riding up his stomach. Gary’s fringe tickled the bared skin there as he bobbed his head and Jamie shivered, trying not to buck into Gary’s mouth.

Gary grabbed at Jamie’s thigh, pushing him back against the wall and keeping him there while his other hand worked at the base of Jamie’s cock and Jamie wanted, very suddenly, to be held down somehow- an image of being tied to a bed frame while Gary went down on him shimmered into life in his mind’s eye and _wow,_ okay, that wasn’t something he’d ever considered but Christ if it wasn’t doing it for him right now.

“I wanna go home with you, Gary,” Jamie babbled, squirming against the wall. “Lot of shit I want to do to you, jesus. To you, with you. Want you to do to me. _Fuck._ Oh- I’m, I’m going to-” Jamie fluttered his hands about uselessly, unsure what to do before tugging urgently at Gary’s hair, and Gary pulled off his cock with the filthiest sound Jamie had ever heard.

He tried to drag Gary up but Gary just raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t want to make a mess, do we, James?”

Jamie gaped at him. “What do you- _oh fucking hell.”_ He let his head fall against the wall again with a thud as Gary took his cock back in his mouth, for Jamie to spill down his throat almost immediately with a strangled cry.

Jamie’s legs felt made of water. He was contemplating melting into the floor when he heard a slight, broken off groan. Gary, still on his knees and eyes closed, palming the front of his shorts desperately. Jamie’s hand was still sunk in Gary’s hair and he twisted slightly. Gary gave him a look of pained reluctance and so Jamie agreeably let himself slide down to wall to Gary’s level, grabbing Gary’s wrists.

“Let me take care of you. C’mon, Gary, you handsome bastard, what do you want?” Gary could have asked for anything in the world right then and Jamie would have agreed. If he’d been a decade younger he probably would have been hard again just seeing Gary like this, a slick of spit and come on his bottom lip that Jamie just wanted to lick off and his hair rucked back from being pulled on.

“Just- can you-” Gary’s cheeks were on fire, his spine curved out towards Jamie.

“Tell me. Hey, hey, Gary, tell me. Tell me what you want.” Jamie’s breath was hot against Gary’s ear, his hands running over Gary’s waist and thighs. God, he just couldn’t get enough of him, there was no way he possibly could.

“O _h_ , fuck, just touch me. Please.”

“Stand up. C’mon, this is why we should have gone somewhere with a bed-”

“Well sorry the facilities aren’t up to scratch. Just get on with it.” Gary gave him an aggrieved look but his eyes were dark, pupils blown out and he got unshakily to his feet. Jamie let his fingers trace the outline of Gary’s erection through his trousers before sliding his hand forward. “Get on with it? Like this?” The opportunity to wind Gary up (in more ways than one) was bringing Jamie’s mind out of its blissful fuzz and back to a position where he could snipe back.

“ _Yes,_ Jesus Christ-”

“Don’t talk about other men while I’m wanking you off. It hurts my feelings.”

“Fuck off- Jamie!”

Jamie had popped open the button on Gary’s narrowed-legged grey trousers and slid underneath the waistband of Gary’s briefs. The angle wasn’t ideal but it seemed to be doing the trick: Gary whimpered, his cock heavy in Jamie’s hand and hi body a taut arch. It was dizzying, having Gary like this. It always was. Ever since they’d started this...whatever it was, Jamie didn’t think he’d ever get used to seeing Gary, professional, self-controlled, sharpened to an inch of his life Gary, go to beautiful bits under Jamie’s fingers and tongue.

“You’re fucking ruining me, Gary Neville,” he said, low and heavy. “I’ve told you that before, haven’t I? How much you’re fucking ruining me?”

They were so close that Jamie could feel every hitch of Gary’s breath, feel it as his chest contracted and feel it in the warm air across his cheek. Gary’s eyes were closed, his head tilted back against the wall and Jamie readjusted his stance, widening his legs to push up and close even the smallest space between them. He sped up the movement of his hand and could feel Gary’s reaction down the entire line of his body.

“Don’t think you’ve mentioned it, no,” Gary gasped. He was a bow in Jamie’s embrace, strung and drawn and finally, with a low cry muffled in Jamie’s shoulder, released.

The air in the dressing room felt about a thousand degrees. For the second time that evening, Jamie slid down the wall. Gary followed.

“ _Fuck,”_ said Jamie with feeling, after a moment of quiet broken only by the sound of two middle-aged men trying to pretend that they weren’t feeling winded after a few minutes strenuous exertion.

“I think you need to expand your vocabulary,” said Gary, having regained himself somewhat although his breathing was still coming quick and uneven.

Jamie laughed, only wheezing slightly. “Nah, no need. That’s what I’ve got you for, to fill in the fancy polysyllables.” He got unsteadily to his feet and went into the showers to wash his hands before fumbling about for some paper towel. There was a roll under the sink and he chucked it at Gary’s head. “That’s why the show’s always better when you’re on.”

“Flatterer,” Gary said, but he sounded pleased. He grimaced, cleaning up as best he could and then glanced at his watch. “Bollocks. I’ve got to be meeting the lads in twenty minutes. I said I was going to drop my things off home first. Now I’ll actually have to.”

“But you decided to, um, take a detour?”

“If that’s what they’re calling it these days.”

“What’s brought all this on?” Jamie looked at him curiously. “Not that I’m complaining, mind,” he added hurriedly. “Not at all. It’s just- different.”

Gary shrugged a bit self-consciously, but made no move to stand up and escape the question so Jamie felt he was on safe ground asking. “I’m not sure. Maybe it was playing football, or seeing everyone playing football. We’re getting on a bit, Carra.”

“That we are. You feeling old, Gary?” Jamie crouched down and gave him a soft kiss. “You don’t look it. You look good.”

“Stop it.”

“You know you’re gonna have to believe me one of these days.”

“Maybe you’ll just, just have to keep saying it then,” said Gary, looking down a bit shyly.

Jamie was delighted. They’d just gotten off all over the bloody _away dressing room_ and now Gary was _shy._ “I won’t mind that.” He kissed Gary again. “You look _gorgeous._ Looked gorgeous out there on the pitch, even in that awful kit-”

“Oi.” Gary jabbed Jamie in the chest, unbalancing him from his precarious crouch and toppling him backwards, laughing.

Jamie only looked at him with a wide grin, sprawled on his back with his legs awkwardly splayed between them. “I do mean it. I was thinking the same, you know. About us getting old. But coming back made me remember: we had a pretty good run of it, didn’t we.”

“Ever the optimist, James.”

Jamie shrugged, sitting up properly. “Better to have loved and lost, and all that. And anyways,” he added, feeling that if he couldn’t say it now while they were both sitting on the floor well and properly debauched, then it would remain unspoken forever, “I like my life now. I liked playing football, and now I like talking about football. With football people. Present company included.” He coughed. “Present company very much included.” There it was. He might someday tell Gary in more precise words that he enjoyed working with him but it could take up to another three years before he was ready for it.

“Oh!” Gary sounded taken aback, which was stupid. But then again, Gary usually was stupid. “I mean, me too.”

“Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment to my analytical skills.”

“Can I take it back, then?”

“Not on your life, too late.”

“I did mean it, by the way, when I said I wanted you to come ‘round after.” Gary said abruptly, looking slightly embarrassed.

Jamie reddened. “I also meant it when I said I wanted to go home with you. And, uh, all the rest.” He stopped, and then plunged forward. “I don’t have to be back in London before tomorrow evening.”

There was a delicate pause.

“If you wanted...I mean, do you think you could...?”

“Hey, I’m not _that_ old, Neville. Maybe not right this second but in a bit. I mean, give me some credit, please.”

“If I give you my key...we won’t be out later than midnight. You’d better be at mine by the time I get back, right? I won’t be well pleased if you run off and leave me locked out.”

“How’d you want me to wait?” asked Jamie. His circulatory system was still wrongly wired, and his oxygen-deprived brain was apparently finding it a good idea to try and be sultry.

Luckily it seemed to work on Gary, which just went to prove that the man had terrible judgement. “However you like so long it’s you.”

“That’s really bloody romantic of you, Gary.”

“Naked, mind.”

“That’s more like it.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Carra's tackle on Gary at Michael Carrick's testimonial, in case you haven't seen it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UNCkXl4MD38)
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